Growing Pains
by AlyKat16
Summary: Rosamund Watson learned early on that her life would never be normal. How could it be? She soon found, though, that she wouldn't have it any other way. Join all your favorite characters in a series of one-shots based on the childhood escapades of Rosie Watson.
1. Of Juice Boxes and Drawings

**_Hey everyone! If you're like me, you've just been itching for some more Sherlock, so here we are! This story will be composed mostly of one-shots of Rosamund Watson and what it would most likely be like growing up with such an odd and mixed family. Hope you enjoy!_**

The man sat down in a leather chair, shifted forward in his seat, and folded his hands together. His grey suit wrinkled slightly as he rested his elbows on his knees and inspected the small person sitting across from him.

"Miss Watson."

"Mister Holmes," she acknowledged and crossed her own short legs.

He smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach his steely eyes. "I see that you already know who I am."

"I'm four years old, not stupid" she said seriously as she took a sip from the apple juice pouch that the dark-haired woman had gotten for her as she waited. That same woman had moved up against a wall on the opposite side of the room and was tapping tirelessly at a device. She didn't look up, but a wide smile spread across her features.

Rosie rather liked her.

The man raised an eyebrow, "Even so, age and intelligence are not necessarily mutually inclusive things, my dear." The corners of his eyes creased and he straightened up in his chair, "Well then, if you know who I am, do you know why you're here?"

Her knotted blonde hair fell in front of her face as she thought, "Is it because you're lonely? Daddy says that you don't have any friends and I think that's very sad." She pushed her hair behind her ear and took another sip of her juice. Her daddy had also said other things, but the last time she had repeated them, Mrs. Hudson had hit him with a towel and Rosie got sent to timeout.

"I don't need friends." Mycroft Holmes scrunched his nose at the thought.

"Mr. Holmes, I haven't even started Year 1, and even I know that everyone needs friends." She smiled widely, "I can be your friend if you want!"

"I am not everyone- and we've gone off topic. I've brought you here for a specific reason and I intend to follow through." He leaned into the back of his chair, "I need to know your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes."

Her face brightened and she sat up straighter. "I like Sherlock, he's teaching me how to play chess and he promised that we would play checkers tomorrow."

"Yes, well-" Rosie continued enthusiastically over Mycroft's interjection.

"Oh! And when he and Auntie Molly take me to the park, he tells me funny stories about the people there! Molly doesn't like it though," she said thoughtfully.

Mycroft frowned slightly, "We're not talking about Miss Hooper though, we are talking about you, Rosamund Watson. Why-"

The woman put her phone down. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I believe John Watson is here."

As if on cue, there was a loud banging noise and shouting from outside the door. Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Miss Watson, I believe we're done here."

"Mycroft-bloody-Holmes!" The door burst open and slammed against the wall with a noise that would've made the room's occupants jump, if they weren't all accustomed to the dramatic tendencies of John Watson. "Did you seriously kidnap my four-year-old daughter to interrogate her!?" Rosie's father looked ready to pounce on Mycroft Holmes and land a few punches on his unconcerned face.

Rosie finished her juice quietly and then leapt out of her chair, "Hi, Daddy- guess what we did at school today!" She ran over and threw her arms around his waist with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. John blinked and then looked down at his daughter who was grinning madly up at him.

He took a deep breath and glared at Mycroft for a moment before bending on one knee and greeting Rosie with a half-smile, "Are you okay?"

"Of course she's fine," Mycroft rose from his chair and spoke for the first time, "I wouldn't harm a child."

John let out an odd noise, a mix between a growl and a laugh, "You're lucky you didn't, because right now, she's the only thing stopping me from committing murder. Come on Rosie," John took her hand and guided his daughter towards the door, "Mrs. Hudson's invited us for dinner."

Both Watsons gave one final look towards the elder Holmes brother; John's, a murderous stare, and Rosie's, a toothy smile and wave.

Mycroft moved beside his assistant who had returned to her phone, but now wore a smirk on her red lips. "Before you even say anything, just remember I can have you fired and sent out of the country before the post arrives next morning."

She looked up and laughed, "No you couldn't, sir."

And when the post arrived the next morning, Anthea did indeed still have a job and she delivered Mycroft Holmes a letter addressed to him in glittery pink writing. She never asked him what was in the envelope, but if she would have snooped, she would have found a hand-drawn picture of two smiling stick figures sitting in chairs and drinking juice taped to the inside of Mycroft's desk drawer.


	2. Operation Canine (part 1)

_**Hello, everyone! It's been a bit, hasn't it? Thankfully classes are ending, so I should have more free time to do a bit of writing now and again. (That's part of the reason this story will be mostly made up of one-shots: I won't leave all of you on an unfair cliffhanger!)**_

 _ **Thank you so much to everyone who favorited, followed, or left a review. All of you are fantastic!**_

 _ **But enough of that- here's chapter 2!**_

* * *

 _ **Rosie: Age 9**_

It was a typical Tuesday night. Father and daughter sat across from each other at a small wooden table, a box of Chinese takeout between the two of them. Rosamund Watson kicked out her legs and sorted the cooked carrots out from the rest of her vegetables. Her dad used to make her eat everything on her plate, but after she caught him tossing the asparagus from the lady next door into the garbage disposal he was less inclined to give her a hard time about what she ate (or didn't). And so, when they got a vegetable medley with their weekly takeout, she picked out the carrots and gave him to her dad.

Rosie scooped some food into her mouth.

"Marcie Allen got a parakeet yesterday," she said, but through a mouthful of takeout, it sounded like, "Marffe Ammn ot a mffffnt esfay."

"Swallow before you speak, remember?" John Watson looked up at his daughter briefly before taking a drink out of his water glass. Rosie frowned slightly, but finished chewing her noodles and swallowed with more force than necessary. Her dad raised an eyebrow choosing only to spear another piece of chicken with his chopstick. Some battles weren't worth fighting. "Now what did you say about Marcie?"

Rosie bit her lip sullenly, "She got a parakeet for her birthday. And her parents let her keep it in her room and fly around!"

"That's nice," John said although he didn't really think so. His aunt had once kept a brightly colored parrot who flew around her house and left feathers and poop all over her furniture before escaping out an open window. If he had to guess, Marcie's bird wouldn't last for too long before it was returned to the pet store or 'disappeared'.

"She asked if I could come over after school tomorrow and see it—please, Daddy!" Rosie added when John hesitated to respond. "I haven't been to her house since her birthday!"

Her dad rubbed his eyes, "Fine, but it's a school night, so you have to be home by six. I'm working late at the hospital so against my better judgement, it's up to you to make sure you get home before then." He leveled her with a stare. "And you know that Kristen will let me know if you're even a minute late—"

"Kristen?"

"Ms. Kennedy." He corrected himself.

Rosie beamed, took a few more bites of her dinner, and then scooped her carrots onto her dad's plate while he watched warily.

"So, Dad," Rosie began, "did _you_ have a pet growing up?" He stirred Rosie's carrots further into his rice before nodding slowly.

"I had a fish in uni, but it got knocked off the shelf one night when my girlfriend and I—" He stopped abruptly and coughed into the elbow of his sleeve. "Nevermind, that's not a story for children."

"Did the fish live?"

"Uhm… yes," John said slowly. Rosie furrowed her eyebrows and John continued quickly, "you know what, when your grandparents, Harry, and I lived out in the country, we adopted a dog that Harry found digging through our trashcan." John laughed slightly, "It had to be the ugliest thing on this side of the Thames, but it would come up to you and want to have its belly rubbed like it was a puppy. I'm pretty sure it had rabies though…" Her dad trailed off thoughtfully.

Rosie twirled her chopstick between her fingers, "Soooo, do you like dogs then?"

"They're not bad," John refocused his gaze towards his daughter. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden?"

"Well I was thinking," she folded her hands on the table, suddenly all business, "if you like dogs, which you do. And if _I_ like dogs, which I do—why don't we get one?" She shrugged her shoulders like she had simply suggested they order a pizza. "It's a simple deduction."

"That does not qualify as a deduction, Rosamund." John took a swallow of water, "That's called putting an idea into someone's head. But nice try, sweetheart."

"Well, will you just think about it?" She jutted out her outer lip and fixed him with widened eyes, "Please?"

What John wanted to say was along the lines of "Absolutely not". No way could he manage taking care of Rosie and a dog and Sherlock at the same time. Who would take care of it when they had to leave for a case or on holiday? Who would take it on walks and make sure it had food and water every morning? And where would it sleep, because there was no way that it was going to share with John.

There were a million things that John could have said, but when he looked at Rosie what he said was "We'll see." So maybe John was a tiny bit of a push-over when it came to his daughter's pleading face. There were far worse things that he could be.

Rosie shrieked slightly and jumped out of her chair. "Thanks, Dad, you're the best!" She raced over to his side of the table and gave her father a quick kiss on his cheek, "Love you!"

And as John sat with his cooling dinner, wondering what sort of scheme he had just played into, Rosie sent out a text:

 _'Operation Canine is a go'_


	3. Operation Canine (part 2)

**_Hi everyone! So, I logged into fanfiction the other day, and I was horrified to realize that this story hasn't been updated in nearly two months... Yikes!_** ** _This is the second part to Operation: Canine, only one more to go! I'll be on vacation soon, so that should give me time to write some new chapters! Yay!_** ** _As always, let me know what you think, or if you have any ideas that you would like to be included in this story :)_**

Less than two weeks later, Rosie came home with the news that Marcie's bird had somehow unlatched her bedroom window and escaped into the city. Marcie, Rosie relayed, wasn't too upset and her parents had even promised to take her to the pet store and let her pick out some hamsters.

Hamsters, John thought, might actually be worse than birds. They were nocturnal, reproduced like it was the 1960s, and looked _way_ too much like mice to be cute. His best mate in primary school had had a hamster family and the mother had eaten several of her babies before they were separated. It was a nasty business, and that wasn't even considering the time that one had chewed through their electrical and fried the entire block.

Thankfully Rosie didn't seem too keen on hamsters. It was the whole dog idea that John was worried about.

She hadn't made mention of their dinner conversation since it had happened, but John had known Rosie long enough to know that she was her mother's daughter, and that meant that there was always something brewing behind those steely gray eyes. Sherlock and Rosie had also both been avoiding each other since his return which either meant that Sherlock had said something insensitive again or they were plotting something together.

He _really_ shouldn't leave them alone anymore.

John picked up the newspaper and settled into his armchair as Rosie deposited her bookbag at the kitchen table. He skimmed through the articles on the front page with disinterest—he never understood how some of the things that were reported on could be considered newsworthy. Some of the cases that he had been on were much more interesting and they usually never even made mention.

Clearing his throat, John settled deeper into his seat and turned the page and then paused. Rosie was staring at him over the top of his paper, a curious look on her face.

"Don't you have any homework to do?"

"Nope." Rosie popped the p and rocked back and forth on her heels, "I did it already."

John went back to his paper, hoping that that was that, "Good, good." There was an article about some sort of scandal involving two elected officials and a crate of smuggled baboons that he was itching to read. Sometimes the news just wrote itself.

His daughter cleared her throat.

"Do you need something?" John didn't look up, but knew that his daughter was still staring at him with unblinking eyes and that she likely wouldn't answer.

Rosie could be stubborn that way.

But she did answer, moving closer to John as she did, "Someone to take me to the pet store. Marcie asked me to come with her to pick out her hamsters."

"Well why didn't she take you right after school?"

"She had to go to the dentist's first. I can take a cab if you don't want to take me."

John sighed, "You're not going to take a cab for five blocks. Just change out of your uniform and I'll take you."

Rosie smiled widely, "Love you!" She ran out the room and John heard the tell-tale thuds that signaled his daughter was headed up to her room.

He had just finished the first section of the paper when Rosie came clunking back down the stairs, now wearing a pair of paint-splattered jeans and tennis shoes instead of her pleated school skirt and flats.

"Don't you have anything nicer than that?"

His daughter shrugged and picked up her jacket from where it was haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chair. "Everything's dirty."

Whether or not she was telling the truth, John wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be surprised if all of her good pants were in a heap at the foot of her bed. He had given up on hounding her about the cleanliness of her room and for the past five years, had left Rosie to deal with her own mess. It worked (for the most part), but John made it a point to avoid looking in his daughter's room unless absolutely necessary—like when their neighbor's cat had made a break for it and burrowed its way under Rosie's bed and they had had to coax it out using leftover tuna casserole.

Rosie didn't give her father a chance to argue further. She tug her hood over her head and swung open their flat door dramatically, leaving John to leap to catch it before it left another dent in the wall. By the time that he clicked the door _gently_ into place and made sure it was locked, his daughter was already halfway down the stairs. She waited patiently on their stoop for John to catch up though and gave him an uncharacteristically sweet smile.

"Thanks for coming with me, Dad." She jumped over the stairs and sent a puddle of stagnate rain water splashing over a passing woman.

The woman huffed and looked indignantly at John who scratched his head and redirected his gaze at the overcast sky. If the woman didn't walk fast enough, her legs weren't going to be the only thing that got soaked.

When John finally deemed it safe to direct his eyes back to ground level, the woman had taken off down the street and Rosie was red-faced with laughter. He swallowed his own laughter that threatened to negate his responsible parent image and gave her a warning look as John took care to step over the water.

Rosie pretended not to notice and scratched at her nose.

By the time father and daughter made it to the pet store where Rosie was supposed to meet Marcie it had started to sprinkle lightly. Rosie tilted her head back and attempted to catch the rain drops while John stepped under an awning and squinted in search of his daughter's friend.

Was she the tall one with curly black hair, or was that the other one? What was her name again? Sylvia? Cecelia? He could never keep Rosie's friend's separate: they all were sassy, wore too much perfume, and were always screeching about boys. Thankfully they didn't stay over very often.

"Are you sure she's still coming?" John looked back at Rosie who was now spinning around on a lamp post.

She continued spinning, "She said she'd come after her appointment, it'll be soon."

John sort of doubted it. The sky was looking more and more like it was about to let loose a torrential downpour and the streets were becoming more sparsely populated by the minute. If Marcie's parents had any sense, they would avoid the inevitable storm and head straight home.

"I don't think she's coming, Rosie." John gave one last cursory glance up and down the sidewalk, "We should head home before—"

There was a sudden crack of thunder and Rosie shrieked with laughter and darted under the awning as rain began pounding the ground.

"Nevermind…" It looked as if John wasn't going to get to finish the paper after all. By the way the radar appeared on his phone, the only way they would be able to get back in within the hour was if they didn't mind soggy shoes. He had the feeling that Rosie wouldn't mind, but when his shoes got wet they took ages to dry and smelled like wet fur. Unless he wanted to borrow their neighbor's blow dryer and spend several hours blasting hot air at his shoes again, they would have to wait this one out.

A cool gust of wind effectively eliminated any dry spot of sidewalk that was left, covered or otherwise, and John found himself and Rosie seeking shelter inside the brightly lit pet store.

It was fairly devoid of human life within the store, but the noise generated by the animal residents more than made up for it. Birds were squawking, hamster wheels were squeaking, and something was making a sound like a car horn. The scent of ammonia and sawdust burned his nostrils and John surreptitiously rubbed at his nose

A young man with a sleeve tattoo that clashed horribly with his canary yellow polo smiled at them, "That storm blew in quick, didn't it?"John nodded politely and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

There was a wall of tanks of brightly colored fish and John stepped closer, keeping Rosie in the corner of his vision. She had her face nearly pressed against a tank of hermit crabs and was watching them intensely.

Maybe they should get a fish. Fish were the perfect pet for downtown London- they didn't make any noise, shed, nor need to be taken outside in the middle of the night to relieve themselves. That, and when they died, they were easily replaceable. With any luck, it would satiate Rosie's want for a pet (for a while at least). He was fairly sure that Sherlock had used his old aquarium as a place to breed flesh-eating beetles so it would need a thorough scouring before it was habitable again, but it would work.

Rosie moved away from the hermit crabs and rounded the end of the aisle, disappearing from view. He studied the fish a moment longer before moving to the next row as well.

His heart skipped a beat.

At first, Rosie's full head of dirty blonde hair wasn't visible amongst the shelves of pet food and supplies, but then he looked down. His daughter was seated on the tiled floor with a large smile on her face, cradling something small and squirmy in her arms.

"Look, Dad!" Rosie stood up cautiously and shifted her arms so that John could see what she was holding.

It was a puppy, complete with a small pink nose and wagging tail that thumped rapidly against the sleeve of Rosie's coat. The puppy yawned up at John, blinked its wide brown eyes, and then let out several pitiful sounding yips.

Immediately, John was suspicious.

"Well, that's convenient," John said under his breath as the employee skidded into the aisle.

"Sorry guys, Houdini has a nasty escape habit that we've been trying to break." He scratched his arm and tossed his hair, "I'm honestly surprised you caught her, she's usually pretty skittish." Houdini whined as if in disagreement. Rosie crinkled her eyes and scratched the top of the puppy's head. "I can take her from you if you want."

His daughter's face fell slightly and she looked pleadingly at John who, at the moment, was still struggling to figure out how long Rosie had been stringing him along. He had been naïve to hope that she had given up on her quest for a dog. Of course, Sherlock had to have been involved, in fact, he was likely skulking around outside. Two could play that game.

John looked at the young man, "Just give us a minute?" The employee looked between father, daughter, and puppy with a look of semi-confusion distorting his face. But then he shrugged and walked back to the register. "Rosamund, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

At the use of her given name, Rosie wrinkled her nose and puffed out her cheeks. When she noticed John was staring at her intently she straightened out and smiled. "Nope."

"Rosamund..."

"Oh shoot, my phone's vibrating." Rosie tried shifting her torso to reach her pocket. "Can you hold her for a second?"

The puppy was held out to John, who frowned at his daughter but took it gently. There was no denying that Houdini was adorable. John would be lying if he said that the puppy was anything but. She was spotted brown and white with floppy ears that fell over her eyes, not unlike the way Rosie's hair did when she was thinking.

It was the principle of it, though. John forced his mouth into a hard line. He wouldn't allow himself to be swayed: there was no way they were getting a dog.

"Oh look, it's Marcie!" She quickly shoved the screen of her cell phone in John's face then brought it to her ear, "Hey, Marcie! Where--" A pause. "Tomorrow? Let me ask first." Rosie covered the microphone and looked up at her dad expectantly, "Marcie's mom wouldn't let her come today and she wants to know if I can go with her tomorrow after school."

He tucked Houdini under his arm and held out his hand, "Let me talk to 'Marcie'." The puppy squirmed restlessly and yipped, causing John to retract his arm, but his determination to get to the bottom of the whole debacle didn't waver.

" _Dad_." His daughter looked horrified, "That's _weird_."

John shrugged, "I'm sure Marcie'll get over it. Isn't that right?" He directed the question towards Houdini, who growled and licked John's hand. "See, even she agrees with me!"

"I thought you didn't like dogs?" Rosie pressed her mouth together.

"I never said that... And stop trying to change the subject. Put Marcie on speaker phone."

Rosie pushed back her hair, "Okay, okay, just give me a second."

As she put her ear back to her phone, John hefted the puppy closer to his face so he could get a better look. It sneezed, then licked his nose, and John couldn't help but smile.

"Marcie's on speaker," John looked over at his daughter, who was grinning mischeviously up at him. That just about confirmed there was something fishy going on.

The person on the other end took that as their cue to speak. "Hi, Mr. Watson, my mom said I should call to say sorry for not coming, so, um, sorry." There could be no question that the voice belonged to anyone _but_ one of Rosie's preteen friends. She and Sherlock must have gotten one in on their scheme somehow.

"It's alright, Marcie," John scratched the puppy behind its ears, "and Rosie can go as long as she's back before five; we have dinner plans." He looked pointedly at his daughter.

Rosie gave him a thumbs up and put the phone back to her ear. "I will, thanks." She looked at John and grinned again, "definitely."

As Rosie shuffled out of hearing range, John sighed and looked down at Houdini wistfully.

"At least I know _you're_ not plotting against me."


	4. Operation Canine (part 3)

**_How long has it been since the last update? Wayyy to long, thats for sure. Doesn't it suck that life gets in the way of doing things you enjoy?_**

/0/0/0/0/0/

The streets of London were strangely empty for this time of night - the air was brisk, but a only a light jacket was necessary for John and Rosie to feel comfortable. Sherlock had decided that he needed to expand his research on flesh-eating bacteria from Baker street to John's fridge, which meant everything was tossed, and Rosie had gotten to go out to eat every night until Sherlock had gotten rid of every piece of disease-riddled flesh that had been stored.

Mr. Jiang from two doors down had slipped Rosie some vouchers for the restaurant his granddaughter waitressed at as a thank you for rescuing the water chesnuts and carrots that attempted to roll away after his plastic sack split up the side.

John had taken it as a sign that he and Rosie should eat something besides the instant noodles that the Panda Express two blocks south served, so they hopped on the nearest subway and rode it a few kilometers south and then walked the rest of the way to the restaurant, which was located down a small side street on the very edge of Chinatown.

Their meals were nice enough, a little heavy on the soy sauce, but the staff was friendly and they received free egg rolls, so John couldn't complain. Rosie picked all of the carrots out from her stir-fry and John pretended not to notice in lieu of having a quiet meal out with his daughter.

Forty-five minutes later, sufficiently full and smelling of fried rice, father and daughter walked together towards Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson had asked them to drop by to pick up a tin of biscuits that she had prepared for them. Rosie danced on ahead of John, trying to jumo from streetlamp to streetlamp without straying from the circular beams of light.

"Toss over your wallet and no one gets hurt." Time seemed to freeze as a man jumped out from the shadows. Light from a street lamp glinted off silver in his hand.

John stiffened, "Rosamund, walk towards me, slowly," he hissed, eyes never leaving the gun barrel that was wavering dangerously close to his daughter. To her credit, Rosie hadn't so much as flinched, but her wide eyes showed how aware of the gravity of the situation she was. She stared at her father, unblinking, and inched forward.

"Don't move!" Rosie jerked to a halt as the man shouted again, "Just stay where you are!" Any thought that John might of had of pulling his gun from its holster was immediately quashed from his mind when the man stepped closer to his daughter and grabbed the collar of Rosie's jacket.

"Okay," John held out his hands, "Okay, I'm going to reach into my pocket and toss you my wallet. Just, let's not do anything rash."

"Gun, drop your gun! What, are you a cop!?"

"Dad…" Rosie's voice wavered

Something came darting out from the shadows and knocked the man away from Rosie. She stumbled forward a bit but caught her footing and bolted forward to cower behind John, who already had his gun drawn and aimed at the would-be robber who was now yelling and writhing on the ground with a black mass on top of him.

After making sure Rosie was out of harm's way, John advanced cautiously, the soldier in him ready to engage, but the father in him hyper-aware of his daughter a few steps away. Now that his adrenaline was pumping, the black mass took the shape of an animal, which now stood over the man, growling and baring its teeth.

"Rosie," John called over his shoulder softly, "Call the police, and tell them to bring animal control along."

There was no response, but John had no doubts that his daughter was already on the phone with emergency services.

The animal seemed disinterested in the other two humans, but John kept his gun steady until he heard sirens and a squad car came zooming around the corner. He holstered his gun just as it screetched to a halt.

A uniformed man and woman leaped out of the car and rushed over, one taking out a set of handcuffs, and the other approaching John cautiously. "Are you and your daughter alright, sir?"

John nodded tersely and looked behind him to get confirmation from Rosie, but she was no longer there.

Instead, she was a few yards away, sitting up against a phone box and happily rubbing the stomach of a mangy looking German Shepard whose tongue was lolling out of his mouth and tail was waving back and forth wildly.

"Rosamund!"

She pouted but stood up. The dog rolled over and John immediately noticed that one of its legs was missing and there was a chunk out of its left ear as well as a long, crooked scar running along the length of its face.

"You have no idea where it came from! I've told you not to pet strays."

"But its not a stray. He saved us!"

"It could have rabies, or be feral. It just attacked a man, for God's sake."

"He saved us."

The policewoman checked her scanner, "The dog warden will be here in a few minutes, but I need to get your statements before I can let you leave."

/0/0/0/0/0/

Rosie wasn't speaking to John. She had taken personal offense that he hadn't let her take the stray back with them and had instead watched as the dog catcher pulled up and carted it away. His daughter had pleaded and complained to anyone who would even pretend to listen, but it was all for naught.

John had put his foot down.

Rosie was having none of it.

"Did you know that only 10% of dogs will find a forever home?" Rosie spoke to her dad for the first time in two days.

"Fascinating..." John didn't look up from the blog post he was writing.

"Sherlock, did you know that 2.7 million dogs and cats are killed each year because shelters are too full?"

"What a travesty. Is there a vial of Batrachotoxin sitting in that teacup?" Sherlock's eyes never left his microscope.

John snapped his laptop shut. "How many times have I told you, Sherlock- no bringing poisonous substances our home."

There was a loud huff of indignation from where Sherlock was seated, but no formal complaint was launched.

"German Sheperds are extremely loyal and highly intelligent." Rosie announced to no one in particular.

"Good to know, if only you spent as much time studying your maths as you did pulling info from the SPCA website."

She plastered on a grimace, "It's not funny, Dad. You don't even care that he saved us." There was a fiery spark in her eyes that reminded him of Mary's when she was ready to launch into an impassioned tirade because they both were being particularly difficult. And he knew from experience that that meant she wasn't going to forget about it any time soon.

"Fine. If I go check to make sure the dog's okay will you stop spouting facts and let me write this blog piece in peace?"

/0/0/0/0/0/

John had never been to the pound before.

Not that it was a place where people typically went to hang out in their spare time. It was louder than the pet store - and smelled worse too- and there was something in the air that was either the stench of ammonia or dog urine. John didn't care to find out which it was.

Behind the front desk a stick thin woman with sunken cheeks and a mildly amused expression clicked away at her computer.

John cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry," she clicked once more and John saw the game she had been playing disappear from the screen. "Didn't hear you come in. What can I help you with?"

"Uh, I'm looking for a dog- a German Shepherd that was probably brought in earlier this week."

"Uh huh, I know him. Got a nasty scar right here?" She pointed to her right eye. "He yours?"

"No." But at the woman's confused reaction, John gave a short explanation about the events of the previous night and Rosie's determination to drive him crazy with her incessant pestering.

The woman, who shared that she had a great-niece who had the same unabashedness as his daughter, took him to the back where the strays were kept.

The German Sheperd was unmistakeable as the one who had jumped from the shadows that night, and it seemed he recognized John too, as he trotted as gracefully as possible to the front of his cage and barked once. After assurance that he was perfectly healthy, John bent down and gave him a few pats on the head.

The woman rubbed the back of her neck.

"Do you want my honest opinion? I'd give him a week or two. He's obviously been on the streets for a while, its unlikely anyone will claim him. And," she lowered her voice as if ashamed of her next words, "he's sweet, but not the most able-bodied creature. Who wants to take care of a disabled dog?"

/0/0/0/0/0/

Rosie was folding her tenth oragami swan of the afternoon when she heard her father's keys jangling against the door handle. As an exercise, she was trying to perfect a nearly useless skill every week. There were about two hundred paper swans scattered around the flat, as well as stuffed in her locker and bookbag at school. Her father kept complaining that she left them around to be stepped on, so as she heard the door swing open, Rosie hopped down from her perch on the counter and picked up the few that she had knocked onto the floor earlier.

Something wet and rough slid up the length of her face and she gasped. "Gladstone!"

Her father, though not shocked that she had already named the dog, watched them warily, "This is temporary, only a week or two," he warned, "just until someone claims him."

Rosie paid no heed, and when she came home from school early three days later, and discovered her father absentmindedly stroking the ears of Gladstone as he lolled on the floor beside John's favorite chair, she knew that she had nothing to fear.

Operation Canine: complete

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 ** _I hope you enjoyed! Hopefully I'll have a bit more time to write this summer, but I'm slowly realizing that being an adult sucks._** ** _Please leave feedback, and if you have any ideas for what you would like to see included as a part of Rosie's story, be sure to let me know!_** ** _best,_** ** _AlyKat16_**


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